


12 Days of Change

by Funkspiel



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Transformation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 21:10:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13198626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Funkspiel/pseuds/Funkspiel
Summary: A collection of transformation fics. Please read the warnings per each chapter, as they will vary. Pairings will also vary.





	12 Days of Change

> **Transformation:** Animagus Forms  
>  **Pairing:** Thesival  
>  **Tags:** Hurt/Comfort, Cuddling, PTSD, Recovery from Torture, Description of War
> 
> * * *
> 
>  
> 
> Opposites attract, or so the saying goes, but in the beginning it wasn’t so. Regal and glory-hungry, Theseus’ fiery tactics clashed greatly against his joint leader — a small, stealthy man who was more than capable of making a bang, but choose to strike sharp and fast and simply instead. Opposites should attract, and eventually they would, but in the beginning it was just as likely to find one Theseus Scamander and Percival Graves tossing in the mud with bared teeth and bloody knuckles as it was to find an enemy in a nearby trench.
> 
> And as was the case with most unruly soldiers — even men as high ranking as they were — their commanding officer  _handled it_.

> With a gruff “ _If you’re gonna fight like cats and dogs, you two blockheads might as well look the part,_ ’ and a spell, he set them straight. Not right away, of course. Like most lessons, it took time to sink in and back then in those first days neither of them had taken it very well. Their animagus forms rendered quite nearly useless and by their commanding officer no less. Theseus’ graceful form — a large and proud lion, full of fangs and claws and a mane that made him look more a god than a man or beast — reduced to blunt milk teeth and giant cub paws too large for his chubby baby body. And Percival — a tall and stocky Staffordshire with a powerful neck and a glossy grey coat, paws nearly as big as a man’s hands and jaws so dangerous they could crush bone — reverted to wobbly legs and more tongue than teeth, his tail the most steady thing on him. Not that he could control it.
> 
> Their animagus forms were to be returned to their former glory once they proved themselves worthy of the beasts whose strength they borrowed. And they did, eventually, earn the titles of lion and hound again, but not before the colonel took his last unfortunate breath in a hospital tent, his guts barely still within his body but for the cradle of his arms to hold them in.
> 
> Just like that, it was permanent. But it did not stop them. Gone were the boys who would have complained. In their stead, war had left behind capable men, if a little broken.
> 
> Tales spread of a fearsome lion from Britain and a hellhound from America — two beasts of the Allies that had taken men down at the knees and pulled hearts from enemy chests with nothing but fangs and claws. And these stories even continued to spread long after said creatures had been cursed to pathetic mewls and soft barks; largely in part to the team that fought with them, telling tall tales at any pub or town they managed to stumble into. Sometimes bewitching POWs and releasing them to their squad just so they might babble the tale themselves, terrified of the hell beasts they had left behind.
> 
> Because stories, they found out, were as powerful as the frequency in which they were told. And the men behind the stories  _were_  just as powerful and gritty as the beasts they falsely rumored about. A tall, broad Brit and a somewhat shorter and lither American, back to back in the fires of hell — the merciless reflection of a predator’s gleam in their eyes as they mowed down their adversaries in step with one another, as though they had been born as one man rather than two. As though they had never once turned their own knuckles upon one another.
> 
> The rumors of their bloody fangs and dangerous claws protected their squad more than once with a well placed patronus or illusion, but the softness of their baby bellies and the quiet comfort of their tiny weight did far more for the squad by comparison. Protecting them not physically, no, but in heart. Keeping their friends, their brothers, grounded through the explosions and the cold nights and the lost friends and the homesickness. Through the hopelessness and the nightmares and the terrors that would later be recognized as PTSD. Teammates often found that on their worst nights, they’d have a sudden warmth on their chest in the form of a little grey bundle or a heavy tan curl — and when it was at its worst, both.
> 
> And while the two did learn to control their forms, in the beginning it was not so simple. A cold night could reduce Percival to his soft, chubby body within minutes those first few weeks. Over exertion nearly always ended up with another soldier finding a pile of familiar clothes and a little lion within, roaring pitifully as it struggled to untangle itself from its human uniform. Sickness ended in little balls of baby fluff. Exhaustion or a moment of inattention too. And while these weaknesses did pass, sometimes — when hope or health or sleep was at its worst — the men still found themselves prone to tumbling into their small, baby soft bodies. Blinking sleepily until a friend scooped them up, bundled in their human uniforms, and carried them to somewhere warm and safe; sometimes even just tucking them into their coats and continuing on with their days.
> 
> No soldier held their vulnerabilities against them, but the secret of their animagus forms never left that squadron but for a small and loyal few. The Lion and the Hellhound disappeared into legends, and by and far the weakness was forgotten by all but Theseus and Graves, of course.
> 
> It was how Theseus found him when finally the Ministry saw fit to allow him to search for his friend after Grindelwald’s capture. No one was left that might have thought to look not for a man, but a small grey pup — and that worried him even more. After all, tiny and likely neglected, what chance did a pup have against the cold of whatever cell Grindelwald had likely locked him away in. Did the dark wizard even find out Graves’ weakness or did he leave him to rot long before his friend had ever finally reverted to his weaker form?
> 
> It’s a question he asked later — weeks into recovery. But the moment he found Graves curled up in the rags of his old clothing, still and thin in the back corner of a dingy looking hole somewhere deep in the bowels of New York’s abandoned metro lines, he had nothing but reassurances soft on his tongue. His heart in and of itself felt heavier than the weight of his friend’s tiny body, cold and limp. Beneath his fingers Theseus could count every rib, every knob of Percival’s spine. And the fact that the pup was not even shivering was worrisome all on its own. He stuffed the babe into his jacket and cast a spell to insulate the space between his coat and his own body until finally,  _finally_  he felt Graves begin to shiver.
> 
> “That’s right, Pup,” he said, rubbing his hands firmly against the bulge of his coat to warm the little body within. “Stay with me.”
> 
> A puppy’s whine built soft and fragile from within the bundle of his clothing, and it was not until he felt a small, dry, frail lick on his chin that he allowed himself to relax — if only by a fraction.
> 
> The aurors looked confused, some outraged by the idea that Grindelwald might have had the gall to reduce their director purposefully into a form so helpless, but Theseus did not tell them the truth about its origin. It didn’t matter. What mattered was getting Graves to help, so he apparated to the medical wing in MACUSA’s depths and refused to move from the bed or allow anyone to steal Percival’s tiny weight from his lap. He watched on as Graves blinked dolefully at every magical exam they could offer, every test, every treatment. He was given potions to put on weight and elixirs to hydrate him and ointments for the wounds and even more vials for the weakened bones — but he would live; he  _will_  live, and Theseus would see to it that he drank them all.
> 
> He took Graves to a hotel room, just in case his old flat contained any torturous memories or any curses still lingered unfound within its nooks and crannies. He took him somewhere bland and safe, where the sheets were white and the down comforter was soft and the walls were vanilla. On MACUSA dime he took them as high as he could so that when Percival woke it would be to clouds instead of New Yorkers pounding pavement or car horns blaring. When he’s better, more rested, Theseus had every intention of spiriting him away for a long deserved vacation, preferably on the other side of the sea. But for now the blandness of the hotel room was soothing, perfect for a sleepy little pup and a stressed out Brit. He tucked them both into the bed after Percival’s first round of many, many potions, and read their favorite book aloud —  _The Hound of Baskerville_  — until he too felt sleep tugging on his eyelids.
> 
> But Theseus resisted, even long after the story was read and done. He waited hours, nights, days until the familiar fire of Percival’s light reentered the once sleepy, blank eyes of the puppy he had inhabited. And when finally Theseus emerged from the bathroom one morning to find not a pup but a man — gaunt and pale but smiling nonetheless — he crawled onto the bed, wound his arms about the man’s hips, and finally allowed himself to sob into the hollow softness of Percival’s stomach.
> 
> His patient let him. With a kind smile, weary eyes and grateful fingers, he combed Theseus’ greasy hair and waited for the inevitable. After all, this was a game they had shared before: awaiting one another to return at bedsides and hospital tents. When his sobs quieted down to softly murmured worries, answered only by Graves’ hoarse but gentle reassurances, Theseus finally gave in. Days of sleepless vigilance reduced him to a pile of clothing and a tumble of fur with too big paws. He mewled pathetically until Percival scooped him up into a ball in his arms, and they stayed like that — pillowed against the headboard — until both of them were strong enough to be men again. Patient and grateful as they held each other through the darkness. Preparing each other to stand and fight again.
> 
> “Thank you, Whiskers,” Percival whispered into the thick rut of Theseus’ neck and against the promise of what would have been a mane if magic didn’t keep it from growing.
> 
> Theseus licked his cheek with a too rough tongue and curled against him, a heavy warm weight, until they both fell asleep. And when they wake, it is as men. Legs tangled, fingers entwined, foreheads touching — smiling in the soft light of morning.


End file.
